


Hands

by ornithia



Series: In the medical records [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ornithia/pseuds/ornithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knock Out/Breakdown, reminiscent</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble prompts, based upon roleplay at my [TFP Knock Out roleplaying blog](http://prepareforsurgery.tumblr.com/)

Large, clumsy, _primitive_ \- any bot in their right processor would have, _should_ have, realised such hands were incapable of mastering the delicate manual procedures characteristic of medics and their associates.

But Knock Out had been adamant in his decision. As he watched Breakdown struggle with the forceps and probe, he recalled the jeers of his colleagues - how they’d scoffed at him, called him rash, a _fool_ too blinded by his reputable lust to _realise_ the futility of trying to teach a **brute** (and a former _Autobot_ , at that) the art of healing.

With a wince, the cherry medic sat up - he felt the intense _glare_ from yellow optics flicker in his direction. A little wry smirk was all he gave as he teased their owner.

"You’re going to _maim_ me if you keep tangling your probe in there like that.”

Dragging himself so that he could now reach between his leg and his assistant, Knock Out laced his ten slender digits with Breakdown’s eight (blunt, but long) and began to demonstrate, _again_. The nervous tremor that ran through his hands was not his own, but just the same Knock Out allowed his EM field to relax and flow, to mingle with Breakdown’s - let him become infected with his _calm._

"I’ll lead. All _you_ have to do is _follow_.”

They’d said an 'oaf' such as Breakdown would sooner break someone than be able fix them. That much was true, to some extent - the only reason Knock Out was still even functioning in the first place was because his partner had interjected a blow that would have surely been fatal on any frame lighter than his robust build - the enemy perpetrator had been off-lined shortly afterward, and Breakdown had stood, colored by the sheer brutality of his actions. But here he was now in the aftermath, _helping_ to repair the medic and, _despite_ the small shocks of pain that shot up the smaller mech’s struts every now and then, doing a fairly good job at it.

Knock Out’s gaze trailed to the side, up Breakdown’s forearm; the armor there was mangled from the strike. He’d be needing his own share of repairs, too - not to _mention_ a bath. Streaks of energon coated the powerful frame, like some _avant-garde_ paintjob-

_"Sorry."_

A small sting of sensation brought his processor back to the job at hand - he’d stopped paying attention, but Breakdown had continued working; he’d been _leading_ for the past few kliks without even realising it.

"… You’re better at this than you let _on_.”

There was a tiny hint of smugness in Knock Out’s tone, even as his knee jerked in obvious discomfort - it was a huge improvement to his condition just moments ago. Without a word, he let himself drift off into a light slumber; his hands remained where they were, unmoving, _cradled_ by Breakdown’s own so as to be used as a crutch.

He was a survivor. Long ago, he’d been deemed a _malfunction_ for his efforts in trying to sculpt an assistant out of the former-Wrecker. It was a bit of a pity that his past _didn't_ haunt him - if only those _ghosts_ could see them now.


End file.
